


My Body's Strained But God I Like It

by LayALioness



Series: When the Sunset Shifts [4]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, First Time, Original Character(s), There is sex in this, Wendigo Wells, also grumpy!Lincoln, in case u forgot, so be forewarned, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2015-06-18
Packaged: 2018-04-04 23:57:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4157811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LayALioness/pseuds/LayALioness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“How do I have sex with Bellamy?”</p><p>There’s a pause, and then, “Well I’d hate to sound forward, but have you tried saying you want to have sex with him?” he asks dryly. “And if that doesn’t work, try taking your shirt off. But casually.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	My Body's Strained But God I Like It

**Author's Note:**

> As promised, werewolf sex.
> 
> A bit of plot in here too, but let's be honest--you're here for the werewolf sex.
> 
> Teagan and her brothers are original characters of mine from some shitty Supernatural fanfic I did when I was like 14, but I really like her, so here she is.
> 
> Title from Wolf Like Me by TV on the Radio, which is essentially this story in song form.
> 
> This is part of an ongoing series, so you should probably read the others first if you want to be on the up and up.

Clarke has been pseudo-living at the lodge for five months, and Lincoln’s only customer in that time has been Lexa. Sure, whenever he steps out he asks Clarke to _man the front desk!_ , but he's mostly joking.

Which is why she’s so surprised when a girl she’s never seen before walks into the lobby. She’s around Clarke’s age, and pretty, with dark hair cropped close to her head. Her green eyes shine from across the room and it’s pretty obvious she isn’t human, but Clarke still isn’t really sure what the correct etiquette is for asking what kind of monster you are. The girl isn’t wolf, but she smells like several, like a pack. Clarke wonders if she might be someone’s Raven.

“Hi,” the girl smiles, completely ignoring Clarke’s obvious stare. “I’m looking for two rooms, for me and my brothers. We’ve heard good things about this place.”

Clarke cocks a brow. As far as she knows, Lincoln doesn’t even know how to work a computer—let alone set up a yelp or hotels.com account.

“From Anya,” the girl adds, like that should clear everything up.

“How many nights?” asks Clarke, because even though she’s never really booked a hotel room before, she’s pretty sure that’s a relevant question.

“Just the one.”

Clarke nods and looks up at the sound of the door opening. Raven steps in and pauses, catching sight of the stranger. She raises both eyebrows at Clarke, who mouths _get Lincoln_. Raven nods and tries to sneak, not at all subtle.

The girl slides a bundle of cash across the counter. “I’m Teagan, by the way.”

“Clarke.”

Teagan nods thoughtfully and then pauses in debate. “I’m Coyote,” she says. “I could tell you were trying to figure it out. My brothers are wolves, so the smells can get kind of confusing.”

Clarke eyes her warily, feeling her curiosity get the better of her though she’s trying to keep it in check. She wasn’t aware were-coyotes were a thing—though she’s not really shocked by the fact. After all, there’s a girl that used to be a fox asleep in one of the bedrooms upstairs.

“Anya didn’t say anything about an Alpha,” Teagan gushes. “I’ve never seen a full one before.”

“What about your pack?” Clarke asks before she can catch herself. “I thought all packs had an Alpha.”

Teagan shakes her head. “My dad was, before he left. My brother Sean became a half-Alpha by default. That’s why we’re here, to find our dad. Anya said to look in the mountain. She said it’s calling to those like us.”

“Those like us?”

“Wolves, coyotes, other supernaturals. We’ve passed a few on the way.” She pauses, biting her lip. “A few hunters, too. More than, actually. You should probably be careful; this place smells pretty heavily—Anya said hunters are using the mountain to catch us.”

“Who’s Anya?” Clarke presses, because to hell with etiquette and self-restraint.

“Anya the Seer,” Teagan says like it’s obvious. She tips her head, confused. “She said her brother runs this lodge, as a haven for our kind.”

“Did she, now?”

Both girls turn towards the lobby, where Lincoln is standing, tense and irritated. Raven is at his side, shooting Clarke an apologetic glance. Teagan looks between the three, uncertain.

“Is this not a haven?” she wonders, clearly uncomfortable. Clarke resists the urge to lay a hand on her shoulder—she should be on Lincoln’s side in this, whatever _this_ is.

“This is a place of business,” Lincoln grumbles.

“She’s already paid,” Clarke chirps. “It’s only one night, Lincoln.” She needs him to back her up. Teagan was talking a lot about mountains and other supernaturals and hunters, which sounds like the sort of things Bellamy had warned them to look out for.

Lincoln growls some more, half-heartedly, before giving a stiff nod and stomping down the hall. Clarke turns back to Teagan with a wince. “Don’t worry about him,” she shrugs. “He just likes his privacy, that’s all.”

“Then why run a lodge?” Teagan wonders, a little annoyed, and yeah—Clarke can understand that.

Clarke tips her head in thought. She’s never really questioned Lincoln’s lifestyle choice, but it does seem kind of counter-productive towards his clear love of being a hermit.

“I don’t know,” she admits, handing Teagan a couple of keys from the wall. Once the coyote leaves, Raven limps her way up to the front counter.

“This is turning into an episode of the Twilight Zone,” she declares.

“Yeah,” Clarke agrees. “Or an Anne Rice novel.”

“Nah,” Raven waves a hand. “She did vampires.” She freezes, eyes comically wide. “Wait, are there vampires too? Griffin, have you been holding out on me?”

Clarke rolls her eyes. “I assure you, you know as much about fake-but-actually-real creatures as I do.”

“Speaking of, how’s our resident vixen?” She waggles her brows suggestively.

“You just wanted to say the word _vixen_ ,” Clarke muses. Raven shrugs, but that’s not a no. “She’s fine. Still sleeping—Lincoln gave her some melatonin to keep her out for a few hours. Hopefully she’ll be able to at least tell us her name when she wakes up.”

She’s been trying not to think about it, but Clarke can’t help worrying about the fox-girl. What if she has nowhere to go? What if she’s been missing for months, or years, and her parents are worried? What if she’s some sort of evil fox spirit, just luring them into a sense of false security?

Okay, the last theory may not be one of her stronger ones, but at this point Clarke isn’t ready to rule anything out.

“Okay. So what are you gonna do about the other important thing?” Raven asks pointedly.

Clarke flushes—she seriously hates her skin. “Teagan’s only staying the night but maybe I can get Monty and Jasper to butter her up with booze and then ask my questions,” she says primly.

“Yeah that’s not what I was thinking about, either,” Raven says dryly.

“I’m working on it,” Clarke argues.

“Are you?”

“Sort of,” she admits. “Not really.” Raven gives her a pointed look.  “ _What?_ We make out, get each other off—it’s awesome! Who even needs sex?”

“I do,” Raven declares. “And in my current state, I have to settle for living vicariously through you. So, what I’m saying is—get on that.”

With that, she straightens up and leaves. Raven doesn’t like to linger after heart-to-hearts. She also hates cuddling, and hugs. Clarke’s pretty sure it’s safe to say her best friend might be an alien.

At this point, it’s not like that would be out of the realm of possibilities.

She does _want_ to talk to Bellamy about sex, but she doesn’t know how to go about having the actual conversation, and Clarke tries to make a point of never trying to do something she’s not sure how to do. Usually she studies, or googles incessantly, but. Well, it’s not like there’s a Wikipedia page on Werewolf Sex, so she does the next best thing.

Wells picks up on the second ring. “Fearless leader,” he says pleasantly. “How can I help you?”

“How do I have sex with Bellamy?”

There’s a pause, and then, “Well I’d hate to sound forward, but have you tried saying you want to have sex with him?” he asks dryly. “And if that doesn’t work, try taking your shirt off. But casually.”

Clarke huffs, more irritated with herself than with Wells, but a little with him too. “I _mean_ , how do I talk to him about having sex?” She bites her lip, suddenly nervous, which is unbearable. “I’ve never done it before. I mean, not with a boy.”

“Sex is sex,” Wells muses. “And Bellamy’s a good guy. Just be straightforward with him, and he’ll understand.”

“You make it sound so easy.”

“It kind of is,” Wells teases. “And if all else fails, you can always take your shirt off.”

“Thanks,” she deadpans, and hangs up.

The nice thing is, while she’s not totally sure _how_ to talk to Bellamy about sex, she _can_ see herself talking to him about sex, so it’s not as uncomfortable as it could have been. She calls out a hasty goodbye to Lincoln, who gives a grumble in response—the grouch—and then heads over to the Blake house.

Monty and Miller are in the front room, playing some sort of zombie game on the couch. Since buying the couch, there’s always been at least one pack member sprawled on it, which Clarke finds amusing. Like they’re making up for lost time.

Once they’d finished putting in the plumbing, the Blake pack moved out of the lodge. Octavia still spends most of her free time there, though Clarke suspects that’s more to do with Lincoln than the hotel itself, and Jasper has pretty much claimed one of the rooms as his, but for the most part they live at the house again.

Clarke gives the boys a quick wave, heading upstairs to Bellamy’s room. She can smell him there, probably reading some ancient poetry or something. Bellamy Blake is a closeted prude, nerd, and hopeless romantic, and she loves it.

She knocks once and then kicks the door a little harshly, because she knows it’ll piss him off, and pissed off Bellamy likes to throw her against things.

So maybe she’s hoping he’ll distract her with his fingers, so what?

Instead he just grins at her from where he’s flopped down on his bed—ancient book in his lap, the nerd—and his hair is messy and his shirt’s ridden up so she can see his hip bones, and he looks so stupidly happy to see her, and she loses all her cool instantly.

“Why aren’t we having sex?” she blurts, and she hears a startled cough from downstairs, which means Monty must have heard her, which. That’s just great, honestly. She feels like sinking down into the floor.

Bellamy stares, unblinking. “Give me a few minutes,” he says wryly. “I mean, you _did_ just get here.”

Clarke huffs and walks in, taking pains to close _and_ lock the door, before sitting on the edge of his bed. (He bought a _bed_ \--well, it's a futon, and she had to threaten to buy it for him and install it overnight, but. Progress.) “I mean,” she flails her hands a little. “Are you, like, worried or something? About having sex with me?”

Bellamy barks out a laugh, but it’s more out of surprise than anything, she thinks. “I would have fucked you into the floor of that balcony without another thought, Princess,” he says blatantly. “I would have had you a dozen different ways, but,” he pauses, choosing his words.

Clarke’s feeling a little lightheaded. “But?” she fishes, voice strained. She’s not sure why she thought talking about sex with the man she perpetually want to have sex with, was ever a good idea.

“But you were nervous,” he admits. “And I didn’t want you to panic and run out.”

“I wouldn’t have run out,” she says, a little petulantly. Bellamy laughs and leans over to grip her by the neck.

“I’m not worried,” he assures her, and then kisses her on the mouth. “We have time,” he mumbles, lips rubbing against hers as he speaks. “I’m not going anywhere.”

And then, well. The only proper reaction to _that_ is to attack him, which she does.

“Wells told me I should take my shirt off,” she says between kisses. “To get you to have sex with me.”

“Wells is a smart guy,” Bellamy pants. “You should listen to him.”

She pulls back a little, grinning, and tosses her tank top to the floor. Bellamy stares pointedly at her breasts, which—well it’s definitely a confidence boost, but she’d really rather he touch them.

She says as much, and he lets out a pained little whine before diving in. “A dozen different ways,” he breathes into the stretch of skin below her collar bone.

“Show me,” she demands, and then his shirt joins hers on the floorboards, and he nearly rips her shorts in his rush to tear them off her. She laughs at him, which annoys him a little, so he holds her arms down when she tries to curl around his neck.

Then it turns into an impromptu wrestling match, which is always a little one-sided. Bellamy’s a lot bigger than her, and undoubtedly stronger, so it’s not like it’s much of a challenge. But then she grinds up against him, and gains the upper hand.

“Cheater,” Bellamy huffs. He’s staring up at her now, grinning and breathing a little too heavy, and she’s straddling his chest, above his waist. He tries to scoot her down, but she sticks her tongue out and digs her knees into his sides.

With a grunt, he heaves her up and manages to roll them over again. Clarke hits the mattress with a huff, hair flying across her face like a veil. He chuckles and gently brushes the strands away before leaning to rub his nose across her cheeks.

He does this too, sometimes—she calls it _nuzzling_ , which irritates him, but whatever. She thinks it’s awesome, and teases him about it incessantly.

Across the room, her phone goes off. Band of Skulls’ _Friends_ , which means Raven. Clarke lets it go to voicemail; she’s probably just calling to see if she’s had sex with Bellamy yet, which. Well, hopefully.

“Bellamy,” she whines when he bites beneath her ear. He licks the skin there, and she thinks he’s the first person to ever touch it. “Stop stalling.” She can feel him grinning against her neck.

He pulls back to look her in the eye. She rolls her own, sure she’s blushing. “If you ask me _are you sure?_ I will literally murder you.”

“You mean _figuratively_ ,” he argues mildly. “ _Literally_ means—”

“Oh my _God_ ,” Clarke growls. “I _know_ what it means, you ass. And I will _literally_ murder you, unless you get to it. Right now.” She grinds up against his thigh in demonstration.

“So bossy,” he chides, bending down to kiss her.

“Well I _am_ your Alpha,” she grins smugly. Bellamy rolls his eyes, reaching down to slide off his sweatpants.

“Co-Alpha,” he amends. He bites his lip. “If I’d known this was happening, I would have kept the box of condoms within reach,” he sighs, standing up and crossing over to his bookshelf—he has a _bookshelf_ now. She’s proud.

“I’ll make sure to send a text next time or something,” Clarke says, amused. And then she’s nervous again, which is pretty unbearable. “Um, so. How many of those have you, uh, gone through?”

Bellamy turns back to her with a raised eyebrow, and he should not look this good standing naked in front of a bookshelf, but. She has weird taste, apparently. “Clarke, are you trying to ask me how many times I’ve had sex?”

Clarke flushes down to her toes. “It’s a big box,” she says defensively. It _is_ a large box—large enough to make her feel uncomfortable with her own inexperience.

“I live with a bunch of teenagers,” Bellamy shrugs. “None of whom are ready to be parents; you can never be too preemptive when it comes to birth control.”

Clarke shakes her head fondly. “The kids are right,” she teases. “You are _such_ a dad.”

Bellamy snorts, climbing back over her and peppering kisses on her stomach until she laughs. “You realize you just called them _the kids_ , right?”

“Let’s not talk about them right now,” Clarke sighs, because he’s reaching two fingers up inside her now, and she’d rather not think about Monty or Jasper or _his sister_ , Jesus Christ.

Bellamy makes a noise of agreement, and she hears the rip of foil before he retrieves his hand. “A few times,” he gasps out. “Before. But—none like _this_ ,” and now he’s staring down at her, looking mostly turned on, but a little nervous too.

Clarke grins shakily. “Only once,” she admits. “With Lexa, but this is different for me, too. You’re different.”

Bellamy grins widely. “Close enough,” he declares, and pushes inside her.

It lasts longer than she’d thought it would, and it doesn’t hurt. She figures she’s ridden bikes and fooled around enough that her hymen’s gone by now, so there’s no Junior High health class horror story, or anything. It’s nice, but she thinks the best part might be the heavy warmth of having him pressed above her.

He comes first, and swears into her shoulder, pressing his mouth against her skin—not kissing, he’s not that coordinated, but it’s warm and wet and makes her breath hitch.

“Sorry,” he winces. “Been a while.”

She’s about to tell him it’s fine, when he slides out—she hisses at the sensitivity, and the _cold_ —but then his mouth is on her cunt, and she has to turn her head to scream into his mattress. He makes her come twice, like he’d said he would, and he looks so smug afterwards that she hits him with a pillow.

He flops back down, half on top of her because the futon is narrow, but she doesn’t mind. “You’re stuck with me now,” he declares. “I hope you know that.”

Clarke frowns sadly. “Can I get a refund or something? I think I’ve changed my mind.” He tries to shove her off the bed, but she latches onto his arm in protest.

They’re still laying naked, half-asleep, when her phone starts ringing. It’s _Weirdo_ by The Vaccines, which means it’s Lincoln calling from the lodge. She sort of hopes he’ll somehow hear it playing one day and give her his signature frown.

Bellamy whines when she disentangles herself and stands to pick up. His hair is messier than ever, and still naked with his eyes closed, and they both smell pretty heavily of sex _with each other_ , and she sort of really really likes him. Stupid amounts.

“What’s up?” she asks, still staring at her maybe-boyfriend. They should probably talk about that too, but somehow she’s not anxious about it. Literally nothing will be weirder than her accusing him of _not wanting to fuck her_ , seriously.

“You need to get here,” Lincoln demands, more serious than she’s ever heard him. “ _Now._ ”

Clarke suddenly goes very cold all over. Bellamy must sense the shift, because his eyes snap open and he sits up quickly. “What is it?” she asks, forcing her voice to stay steady.

“Raven tried calling,” Lincoln says, like that should clear things up. Clarke grits her teeth in frustration.

“What _is it_?” she snaps.

“The fox,” he sighs. “She’s awake. Get here.”

She hangs up without saying goodbye. “What’s going on?” Bellamy asks, reaching for his shirt. Clarke’s hopping into her shorts.

“I’ll fill you in on the way,” she answers, slipping on her shoes. Bellamy follows her out.

 

“And you didn’t tell me sooner?” Bellamy asks after she’s explained everything—starting with the blood at Finn and Harper’s crime scene, up until Lincoln transformed the fox on his counter. “ _Jesus_ , Clarke.”

“I was going to,” she snaps, defensive. They’re within sight of the lodge, now. “But I got…distracted.” He snorts, but doesn’t respond as they enter the building.

She leads him upstairs to the fox’s room, and knocks quickly. To her surprise, Wells is the one to answer.

Her shock must show, because he waves a hand in explanation. “Raven called me when you didn’t pick up.”

“Sorry,” Clarke mutters, stepping inside. She refuses to feel guilty for taking an hour to herself; she’s been on Alpha-duty for months, now. Plus, she didn’t get to ride the post-orgasm high for as long as she’d have liked, and she’s a little bitter about it.

Lincoln isn’t there, but Raven is, perched on one edge of the mattress, while the fox-girl sits up against the headboard. Raven offers Clarke and Bellamy a quick once-over, before rolling her eyes in explanation. Clarke glares—it _was_ her idea, after all, who is she to be irritated at the outcome?

Wells crosses back over to the bed, sitting close enough to place a comforting palm on the girl’s knee. Clarke expects her to flinch at least—can’t she smell what he is? But she seems to lean into his touch, which is.

Well it’s definitely different.

“I’m Clarke,” she decides to start out easy, walking slowly. She doesn’t go to sit on the bed, but stands a safe few inches away. She feels Bellamy place himself a little in front of her, as if shielding her from a threat. She bites back a smile at the gesture—it’s sweet, but she can take care of herself. “I found you in the woods—you were caught in a bear trap.”

The girl shakes her head. “It was meant for me,” she admits. “I’m pretty sure. They left sunflower seeds, and eggs, which are my favorites. They’ve been chasing me for a while.”

“Who?” Clarke pushes, and she’s probably being insensitive, but.

The girl shudders, eyes closing briefly. Wells squeezes her knee and she leans into him. Clarke chooses to ignore that for the time being, but files it away to discuss later. “Hunters,” she whispers.

“Fox hunters?” Bellamy asks, shoulders tense. Clarke knows he’s thinking of Atom, and the arrows from the trees. He’d been on the front lines that night, fighting in the woods.

“I don’t know,” she says. “They kept trying to catch me.”

“She doesn’t remember her name,” Raven cuts in, probably to give the girl a break from their questions. Raven likes to pretend she doesn’t know how to interact with people, but she’s secretly pretty good at it. “Or where she’s from.”

“You should probably stay here then,” Clarke muses. “At least until you’re well again, and then we’ll figure out what to do. Lincoln won’t mind.”

“I know,” the girl nods assuredly. “He said the same thing.”

Clarke can’t help but frown. “Am I the only one he wasn’t nice to right away?”

Bellamy smirks. “Yeah, you’d think your charming personality would have won him right over.” She elbows him in the side sharply.

“It won you over,” she points out.

“Nah,” Bellamy shrugs. “I just really like your boobs.”

Raven groans outrageously. “You two disgust me,” she declares. “And you disgust Wells. And Fox, think of her sensitive disposition—you are _ruining_ her.”

Clarke looks over to find Fox looking more amused than ruined, so she rolls her eyes. “Can we call you that?” she wonders. She doesn’t want to be _too_ insensitive.

The girl shrugs. “There are worse names, I guess.” It’s not exactly a ringing endorsement, but it’s not a _no_ , so Clarke goes with it.

“Well Fox,” Bellamy says, pulling up a chair and propping his feet on the bed. He really does have very long, very nice legs. And Clarke really shouldn’t be admiring them just now. “Why don’t you start with what you _do_ remember.”

It isn’t much; she remembers her last few months as a fox, but nothing of her life before that. She remembers being terrified for most of it, being hunted through the trees. She remembers running, and hunting, and sleeping. She remembers nearly freezing in the winter, but finding an old wooden shed to burrow in. She doesn’t remember much from the night Harper and Finn died—she remembers being chased, and then something sharp grazing her hipbone, which is where the blood came from. She remembers hearing a hissing sound, and a scream, and then she was escaping into the trees.

“We should go to some of the first places you remember,” Clarke decides. “To help jog your memory.”

Fox shrugs wearily. “If you think it’ll help.” She sounds tired and skeptical and resigned.

“We can do it tomorrow,” Wells decides. “For now, you should rest.”

Fox shoots him a grateful smile, and even Raven can sense the two want a moment alone. She’s only a little awkward about it, limping out of the room behind Clarke and Bellamy.

“Great,” she grouses, shutting the door behind them. “Now I get to be the third wheel to _two_ couples. Three, if you count Lincoln and the little Blake.”

“Wait, what?” says Bellamy.

“Oh I’m sorry,” Raven says dryly, not at all apologetic. “Was that meant to be not obvious? I couldn’t tell, based on how _not obvious_ they were being.” She pauses, considering. “Although I guess I wouldn’t notice either, if I spent all my spare time checking out Clarke’s boobs.”

“I’ve never been subtle about that,” Bellamy defends, blushing furiously. Clarke nudges him with her hip.

Raven makes a noise of disgust, glaring mildly at Clarke. “You disappoint me, Griffin.”

“It was _your_ idea,” Clarke laughs. “You told me to jump him!”

“Exactly; I said jump him, not drool over him like the pathetic Bambi you are.”

“Don’t listen to her,” Bellamy grins. “Feel free to drool over me all you want. I’m pro-drooling.” Clarke smiles up at him, silly and completely pathetic.

“Disgusting,” Raven declares. “You two deserve each other.”

“Yeah,” Clarke agrees. Bellamy drapes an arm over her as they walk.

 

It’s not like Clarke meant to forget about Atom, or the hunters, or Finn and Harper—but a lot has been happening in between all those moments, and it’s not like she’d been particularly close with them anyway, so it was easy to let them fall to the wayside for a while.

But now it’s Monday and she’s in class, and a group of police detectives have turned the library into an impromptu interrogation room, while they interview students one by one.

The investigation has been a slow one, mostly because they have no leads, and because the case is so fucking bizarre that they hadn’t known where to begin, at first. Atom turned into a lightning rod; there’s not really a baseline for that sort of thing.

It took them a while to even classify it as murder—Clarke’s still not sure if they have, actually, or if they’re just calling it a _suspicious death_.

And Harper and Finn have now been officially declared missing for three months. She’s pretty sure no one’s holding out much hope for them. The Collins kids hadn’t been the type to run away. She knows the truth, of course, and it leaves a bad taste in her mouth, but. It’s not like telling them will help find their murderers. She can’t exactly offer _mythological creature with claws and teeth_ to a police sketcher. Best case scenario, they’d assume she hallucinated the whole thing, or was possibly on drugs.

Worst case scenario, she’d be dragged downtown in handcuffs. Probably with Lincoln, Wells and Raven. Which is not an option. Pack comes first.

So she sits straight-backed and does her best not to fidget as they ask if she knew Atom or Finn or Harper, and how, and if she has any insights to offer. _No_ on all counts, and she’s out in seventeen minutes. Raven takes a little longer, since she’d sort of dated Finn for roughly three weeks. Octavia, apparently, had hooked up with Atom at the Halloween party, so they end up waiting for her _forever_ in the hallway—but then classes are over early out of respect for the dead-and-presumed-dead students.

The ride over to the Blake house is long and uncomfortable and silent as they all try not to panic.

Bellamy must smell the anxiety rolling off of them, because he’s stepping out onto the porch as soon as they pull up the drive. Octavia sinks into him without a word, and he wraps an arm around her neck in some sort of big-brother affection.

Clarke crawls up last, once everyone else is inside. She hovers a few inches away, wanting to follow Octavia’s lead and seek comfort, but she sort of feels like she needs to offer a reason.

“They’re investigating Atom’s death,” she explains. “And Harper and Finn’s disappearance. We were all questioned.”

He draws her in without another word, and she realizes how stupid it was to feel like she needed a reason to fall into him. He dips his face to plant a kiss at her crown.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles into her skin and hair.

“You didn’t do anything,” she points out, voice muffled by his shirt. He smells like sawdust and primer and forest and _Bellamy_.

“Still sorry,” he says mildly.

“I didn’t even know them,” Clarke muses. “Not really.”

Bellamy pulls back so he can look down at her. “Stop trying to find reasons not to be upset about this,” he demands. “Be upset. You _should_ be—three people you knew _died_.”

Clarke is suddenly struck by the need to tell him—about _everything_. Her dad, and what happened to him; her childhood best friend Thalia, who just started ignoring her for no reason in sixth grade; her first kiss, a girl named Lilly when they were fourteen, who had been doing it for a dare, while Clarke had just wanted to kiss her; how her first time with Lexa had been nice and enjoyable, but nowhere even close to her first time with him.

How she’s ninety percent sure that within a week, she’ll tell him something idiotic like _I love you_.

She wants to tell him things just to tell him, just so he’ll know, and she wants to know everything about him in turn. She wants to fall asleep with him and wake up with him and _fuck, fuck, fuck,_ she’s in love with him.

She doesn’t have time for this.

“I have to go check on Fox,” she decides, pretty spur of the moment, and mostly just to get away from him which makes her feel _awful_.

Bellamy frowns, but leaves his hands on her shoulders. “I’ll come with you.”

Clarke shakes her head. “The kids are pretty shaken up, you should stay with them. Just in case.”

He cracks a smile. “Who’s the parent, now?”

“Shut up,” she chides fondly. She bites her lip. This is probably the sort of moment where one of them says _I love you_ , and then the other says it back.

So naturally she slaps his shoulder and chirps, “See ya!” because she has got it fucking together.

When Clarke gets to the lodge, it’s as Teagan’s leaving.

She’s standing in the lobby with two older boys—each with hair a shade darker, but the same cheekbones, so Clarke assumes they’re the brothers. Teagan waves them off ahead when she spots Clarke, who wanders over to lean beside her on the wall.

“I was going to get you drunk last night,” Clarke confesses, because there’s really no point in keeping it to herself, now. “And interrogate you.”

Teagan raises a brow. “About what?”

Clarke shrugs. “Hunters. Anya. The mountain. Whatever you knew.”

“You could’ve just asked,” Teagan says mildly.

Clarke shrugs again. “Yeah, but my way would’ve been more fun.”

“Yeah, probably,” Teagan laughs. “What kind of alcohol would you have bribed me with?”

“Vodka,” Clarke decides. “Maybe rum. I don’t know—whatever Lincoln keeps in the cabinet he thinks I don’t know about.”

“You could still ask, you know,” Teagan offers.

“I know,” Clarke nods. “So, about hunters,” she starts and Teagan chuckles.

“They’re dicks,” she offers. “I don’t think they’re behind whatever’s fucking with the mountain, though,” she decides. “More like, using it to their advantage. Sean and Danny found some sort of antenna—like an amplifier—hooked up to the ridge. They couldn’t get to it, but. We’re heading out, just in case.” Clarke can smell the nerves on her, though she’s tried hard to mask them. Her wolf brothers must have taught her a few tricks, but it’s hard to completely hide so much anxiety.

“Good luck,” Clarke says, and she honestly means it.

“You too,” Teagan nods. “Take care of yourself.” Clarke walks her out to the ’67 Chevy Impala waiting in the drive, and waves them off.

She passes Lincoln, pressing tea leaves in the kitchen. She waits until he glances back at her.

“So you ever going to tell me about Anya?” she asks mildly. She knows that if it were important, he would have explained the first chance he got. Since he hasn’t, she isn’t terribly concerned. But she’s still curious.

“Hopefully not,” he shoots back. She stands staring for a moment. “Don’t you have other lives to meddle in?” he asks.

“You like my meddling,” Clarke declares, heading up the stairs. “Hey,” she announces before ducking her head inside Fox’s room—mostly because she figures Wells is probably there, and she doesn’t really feel like walking in on anything.

Wells is there, but he’s just lying beside Fox on the bed, reading her one of his giant Poli-Sci books. He waves a hand in greeting without looking up from the page, but Fox offers her a shy smile.

“You came back,” she says, pleased.

Clarke nods. “Said I would,” she points out—she wants Fox to know she can trust her. “Also said we’d take you to see the sights, hear the sounds, remember the memories.”

Fox’s mouth droops a little bit, and Clarke knows she’s nervous, so she tries to smile encouragingly. “We’ll be with you the whole time.”

“If you start feeling uncomfortable, we’ll stop,” Wells promises. Fox nods and stands stiffly.

They start with Diana Sydney’s grave, since that’s where Clarke first saw her.

“I remember you,” Fox says. “You scared the shit out of me!”

Clarke laughs. “I didn’t mean to,” she swears. “And anyway, you scared me a little too—I wasn’t expecting you. Plus, you smelled weird.”

Fox makes a face, but she’s stepping a little lighter, and holding Wells’ hand. Clarke looks at them pointedly, and then shoots Wells a sly wink. He glares back at her.

He’d sent her a text the night before—

_Jesus she’s pretty. She’s pretty and she makes terrible puns and she’s asleep on my shoulder what the hell do I do with this_

Clarke had taken five minutes to laugh so hard she couldn’t breathe, and then responded.

_try taking ur shirt off. u kno, casually._

He hadn’t texted back.

As they step through the brittle leaves, Clarke studies the grave itself. The dandelions have long-since wilted, and the earth is harder and cracked. The trees seem paler in the winter light, though it’s nearly February. She’s wearing her Mom sweater, because it’s a little bit cold. She wears it periodically, and Raven makes fun of her every time.

Strangely, it seems to turn Bellamy on. _“It’s like the ugly Christmas sweater version of matching tattoos,”_ he’d shrugged one day. _“Plus maybe I like thinking of you as the mother of my children.”_ The sweater hadn’t stayed on for long after that.

They wander around the woods until evening, and then head back to Clarke’s house for dinner. Abby’s working late again, so they order pizza—Clarke and Fox’s with raw bits of pork, Wells’ with human pancreas, Raven’s with pepperoni and extra olives.

Eventually Fox has to go back to the lodge, and Wells awkwardly offers to drive her. Clarke mimes unbuttoning her shirt while Fox’s back is turned, and Wells flips her off good-naturedly.

Bellamy calls as soon as they leave, which is uncanny. Raven makes a face and loudly announces that she’s going to shower, and marches upstairs.

“Hey,” Clarke says, feeling unsure and stupid about it. It’s Bellamy. They had sex in the front seat of her truck that morning, and then he called her _stunning_ before she left for school. There’s no _reason_ for her to feel nervous when he calls.

“Hey,” he breathes hastily. “So, I don’t know how to ask this without sounding like an idiot.” It’s not the best prelude to a question, but at least now she knows she’s not the only one feeling ridiculous.

“Okay,” Clarke tries. “Just shoot, and I’ll try not to laugh too loudly.”

“Thanks,” he growls. “What are we?”

The moment stretches and Clarke tries to think of what he might mean, beyond the obvious. She can’t come up with anything. “Sorry, what?”

“See?” he huffs. “Idiot.”

She has to laugh at that, but then she catches her breath and apologizes. “It’s just, I was literally wondering the same thing—but I didn’t know how to ask you!”

“Cool,” he laughs. “We can be idiots together.” And she kind of likes the sound of that, so she smiles.

“I guess that’s what we are, then,” she teases.

“What? Two idiots?”

“Co-idiots,” she amends. “And co-Alphas. Co-everything.”

“Okay,” he agrees, sounding almost shy. There’s a pause, and Clarke’s pretty sure they’re both just sitting there, smiling stupidly at nothing. And then, “So what are you wearing?”

“Goodnight, Bellamy.”

 

Clarke wakes up to the sound of the front door, from where she’d fallen asleep on the sofa, to the sound of Bellamy reading some Ancient Mesopotamian myths to her. Abby must finally be home. Clarke glances at her phone—4:05 AM. She frowns; her mom’s shift usually ends at 2:30.

She pads out into the kitchen, where Abby’s filling a glass of water from the Britta. “You’re home late,” she yawns. “Everything go okay?”

Abby sighs, back to her daughter. “There was—a complication,” she admits, turning around slowly. Clarke can’t hold in the gasp.

Abby’s neck is ringed with dark bruises, the size of thumbs and fingers. There are yellow-purple pockets around her left eye. She smiles wryly with a split lip.

“Mom,” Clarke breathes, and then she’s crossing over to clutch Abby in her arms.

“I’m okay,” Abby soothes, running a hand down Clarke’s tangled curls. “One of the patients was on amphetamines—Jackson managed to pry him off me before he did any real damage.”

“They _better_ give you today off,” Clarke says fiercely. “And tomorrow. The whole damn week.”

“Language,” Abby scolds, with no real heat. She pulls Clarke back so she can catch her eye. “I’m okay,” she reiterates. “It looks worse than it is—you know how easily I bruise.” Clarke’s still frowning, still worried, still fucking _terrified_ because what if it wasn’t just some meathead doped up on steroids? What if it was a werewolf or werecoyote or were-fucking- _bear_ —because for all she knows, those are a thing too—? What if next time, Jackson isn’t there to step in? Arkadia is looking more and more like a deathtrap or a time bomb or a war zone, and Clarke’s human, entirely too fragile mother is right in the middle of it.

Clarke never really realized how easily torn human skin is until she didn’t have it, anymore.

“I mean it about the week off,” Clarke warns, softly. It’s a sort of surrender, and Abby gives a small grin.

“Me too,” she admits. “I even haggled.”

Clarke gave a mock-gasp—her mother, the goody-two-shoes saint of the hospital, _haggling_ for some days off. Practically a scandal.

“Raven’s going to insist you take up kickboxing,” Clarke warns, and Abby chuckles.

“She would have done that, anyway,” Abby argues.

“Yes, but now she has grounds.”

“Think I could knock her down to yoga?” Abby muses.

Clarke raises a brow. “One night of haggling and suddenly you’re an expert, huh?”

“That depends,” Abby says, nudging Clarke’s shoulder with her own. “Can I convince you to wash these dishes?”

Clarke huffs out a laugh. “Are you seriously pulling the sympathy card?”

“Well, I _did_ just get strangled by a very large, very intimidating man,” Abby points out. “Also punched in the face.”

“Fair point,” Clarke concedes with a sigh. “Go to bed—I’ll take care of these.” Abby pressed a kiss to her temple and shuffled upstairs as Clarke filled the sink with soapy water.

 

“Okay, so what’s going on?” Bellamy asks, breath still a little uneven as he pulled his shirt on. Clarke had just dropped the wolves off after school, but instead of leaving or helping Miller with the back deck, or playing Final Fantasy VIII with Octavia, she’d rushed upstairs and pretty much tackled Bellamy onto his bed.

“What do you mean?” she asks, defensive. Bellamy sighs with a small smile, leaning over to press a sloppy open-mouthed kiss to her jaw. He’s been pretty affectionate to her all the time since they’ve started, _whatever_ they’ve started, but he’s especially tactile after sex, and it’s awesome.

“I _mean_ ,” he smiles. “You’re stressed. And while I definitely _do not_ mind the way you’ve chosen to relax—in fact, I want to encourage you to turn to me for _relaxation_ at all times—you’re definitely still stressed. So, what is it? What’s up?”

Clarke is pretty torn whenever Bellamy reads her like this—she sort of hates being so obvious about her emotions or thoughts, but it’s also a warm sort of comfort having someone know her well enough to guess what she’s feeling.

“I’m worried about my mom,” she admits, because she’s learned that with Bellamy it’s best to just go for it. “She got attacked by some lout at the hospital, and I think maybe it has something to do with all _this_ ,” she waves her hands in explanation.

Bellamy gives a raised brow. “Have I ever told you how hot it is when you use Middle English insults?” Clarke rolls her eyes, but flushes anyway.

“You think I’m hot all the time,” she argues.

“True,” Bellamy nods, and now he’s smoothing his nose over the dip in her shoulder, skimming her skin with his mouth. “But especially when you use old words.”

Clarke hums in the back of her throat as he mouths at the base of her neck. “How old do they have to be, specifically?” she wonders. “If I’d used something from the nineteenth century, would that not do it for you?”

“Two hundred years is a long time,” Bellamy breathes. “I’d take it.”

Then there isn’t much talking for a while, because he’s absolutely the _worst_ distraction, and her attention span is pretty much zero when he’s in the room.

He pulls back eventually, cupping a hand from her left ear to the point of her chin. “If you’re worried about your mom being here, we’ll send her out of town,” he says, like it’s just that simple.

Clarke considers. “She does have some days off,” she muses.

“See?” Bellamy grins. “I’m a genius.” Clarke rolls her eyes, but then they’re kissing again, and his hand’s sliding lower and lower and…

She’s willing to say he’s above average.

 

She finds a ticket to Monticello’s wine tasting tour waiting on her pillow that night. She sends Bellamy a quick _thanks_ , and tapes the ticket to Abby’s door.

For four days, she’ll be able to breathe again.

 

Abby leaves the next day while Clarke’s at school. Afterwards, she swings by the lodge to pick up Fox. Miraculously, Wells isn’t there, but Octavia is. She’s sprawled sideways across one of the lounge chairs in the lobby, and Clarke gets the distinct feeling she’s been waiting for her.

Which, she was. “Take a seat,” Octavia says coolly, and Clarke feels like she’s just been sent to the principal’s office.

“So,” Octavia drawls as Clarke fidgets—she’s obviously reveling in Clarke’s discomfort, which, _rude_ , but Clarke can’t really blame her, so. “You and my brother.”

“Uh,” Clarke stammers, “Yeah. Um. We were going to tell you, O—” Octavia holds up a hand, disinterestedly.

“Please,” she smirks. “I’ve known since Christmas—before that, if you count all the ridiculous, pining stares and shit. You two were so obvious. Bell’s been messed up over you basically since we got here.”

Clarke opens her mouth to deny it, but then snaps it back shut. She thinks back to Halloween night, and the look of appraisal in his blue eyes. “No he wasn’t,” she says, without any real feeling behind it. She’s still thinking about his eyes. “We hated each other.”

Octavia rolls her eyes exaggeratedly. “Look, as someone who has known my brother for almost his entire life, _trust_ me—he was into you. It. The whole I-hate-you-but-also-kinda-respect-you thing is sort of his niche.”

Clarke blinks, not really sure how to respond to that. It is nice to hear that Bellamy may have been as hung up on her as she was on him, but she’s not sure how much she can trust it coming from a second party. “Thanks?” she tries. Octavia snorts; clearly, that wasn’t the right answer.

“Look,” Octavia’s stare hardens. “I like you, and obviously I think you guys are super cute and we’re all rooting for you, but—” She let the wolf-yellow of her eyes shine threateningly. “If you hurt my brother, I will _hunt you down_ , Alpha or no Alpha. _Capiche_?”

“Perfectly,” Clarke nods. She’s never had a sibling, or sat someone down for the _what are your intentions_ speech, but she’s pretty sure she’d do the same for Raven, or Wells, or even Lincoln.

“My turn,” Clarke grins wryly. Octavia smirks.

“Shoot.”

“What are your intentions with Lincoln?” she asks. Like she said, she’s never done this before. She’s sort of making it up as she goes.

Octavia smiles with all her teeth. “To fuck him in every bed in this joint,” she declares. Clarke makes a face.

“I sleep here sometimes!”

Octavia just smiles wider. Clarke shakes her head to dissolve the mental image. “And after that?” she presses. Octavia shrugs.

“Whatever he wants,” she decides. “I’m pretty sure he’s it for me, so. It’s up to him, honestly. I’d elope with him to Mali, if he asked. I’d move to fucking Michigan, and I fucking _hate_ Michigan.”

Clarke’s a little surprised by how casually Octavia’s just confessed her unending love for the innkeeper, but it’s also Octavia, and she’s learned to never really expect normalcy from her. So she just nods, and Octavia nods back, like they’ve just completed some sort of weird, awkward business deal.

She collects Fox, and they head out to the woods.

“I prefer the air out here,” Fox admits, turning her face up towards the sun with her eyes closed. “Everything smells like wolf in there.” She cuts her eyes towards Clarke sheepishly. “No offense.”

“None taken,” Clarke says mildly, mind still stuck on the words _been messed up over you ever since we got here_ , and she’s not sure what to do with them. She vaguely wonders if she should have the _what are your intentions with Wells_ talk with Fox, but decides to wait until they’ve at least had a first date.

They hike out to where Clarke had found Fox in the trap. The metal is still there, stained with crusted blood, but it’s been moved a few feet, Clarke’s pretty sure, and there are signs that someone’s been through pretty recently.

“Getting anything?” Clarke asks, shivering despite her sweater. She’s not sure it’s from the cold; she has the distinct feeling she’s being watched.

“No,” Fox says, frustrated. She does _want_ to remember. “I just—” She’s cut off by the shrill whine of something metal shooting through the air, and the girls barely spring apart, before a circular metal saw sails into a nearby tree.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Clarke growls, feeling her blood run hot, her skin start to itch. Fox is looking jagged around the edges, and her hair’s going copper.

There’s the snap of a branch and Clarke whirls around to find Thalia Grace, with an arrow aimed at Clarke’s throat.

“ _Thalia_?” Clarke asks, unsure how to proceed. She’s gone to school with Thalia since kindergarten—they’d been best friends for six years. It’s hard to reconcile that with the snarling girl pointing a weapon at her.

“ _Wolf_ ,” Thalia spits, and just like that, she’s no longer the scrawny little girl with skinned knees and plaid scrunchies, anymore.

Fox snarls from Clarke’s side, and Clarke spreads her feet so when she shifts, she can take off running. Thalia pulls the bowstring back.

A hissing noise interrupts them from the trees. A thick sheen of smoke begins to swarm them, and Fox whimpers by Clarke’s elbow.

“I remember now,” she whispers. Clarke tries to think of Raven, tries to shift, but she’s still human when she hits the ground.

Everything goes black.


End file.
